


Soft Devotion

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: The Martian (2015)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha!Reader, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, F/M, I am such a sucker for ABO dynamics, Omega!Beck, and for female alphas and male omegas, freaking sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 07:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17055923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: The first time you see him is six years before launch at an orientation. The auditorium is packed, and the director up front is saying all these important things but your nose picks up a scent so sweet and alluring it drowns out the words. Your hindbrain zeroes in on it, scanning the crowd until you find him.He’s so pretty.“Beck. Chris. I’m B- Chris Beck.” He adorably stumbles over his words, hand half outstretched in hesitation.Doctor Chris Beck. He’s the fucking flight surgeon for the mission? You quickly run through the crew again, and something blooms in your chest.You’re outranked by an Omega.And you fucking like it.





	Soft Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> I am slowly crossposting fics from tumblr in the wake of their ridiculous policy changes. First up is a favourite featuring our adorable little space doc Chris Beck. Or as all of his posts are tagged on my tumblr: Dr Hottie McSpacepants.

The first time you see him is six years before launch at an orientation. The auditorium is packed, and the director up front is saying all these important things but your nose picks up a scent so sweet and alluring it drowns out the words. Your hindbrain zeroes in on it, scanning the crowd until you find him. **  
**

_He’s so pretty._

You curse, thankful your Rut is coming on soon. Pursing your lips, you groan internally. Another thing you need to prepare yourself for; the careful tweaking of your cycle, managing it with suppressants to fit the launch should you get picked. A five-day Rut or Heat is a terrible inconvenience in the middle of a Mars-mission.

The pretty candidate turns his head, as if knowing you’re watching, giving you a small smile, and your heart stutters.  _It’s your Rut speaking_ , you tell yourself, forcing your gaze to the podium and your focus on the director.

Besides, you might not get picked. He might not get picked. This is just orientation, a lot could happen. But, hypothetically… you could both be picked, and Jesus Christ, suppressants better be fucking worth it. Heat surges through you, settling as that telltale smolder in the pit of your stomach, flaring out into every vein in your body. God, you need to call your Rut partner the second you’re out of here.

* * *

You tell yourself you have forgotten just how pretty he is when you see him again. That you haven’t kept an eye out for him at every aptitude test. That you haven’t spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to dissect his scent (fresh linen and that heady scent of earth after rain). You tell yourself all these things because you need something to blame your body for kicking up a fuss.

People have steadily been weeded out, split into groups based on specialties. Three years have passed, and only the mission commander and pilot have been picked, the latter only last month. You’re still fighting and apparently so is he. He’s bunched in with a group of biologists and M.D’s, and god damn, how can someone so pretty even walk through a room without having Alphas hanging on his fine Omega ass?

_Oh, right, because they’re fucking professionals._

You grind your teeth together, focusing on the task at hand. You’re a professional too, damnit. God, you can smell him from across the room, like a comforting day in bed, the scent of rain wafting in through an open window.

“Fuck…”

Regardless of whether you’re picked, perhaps it’s time to give suppressants a try. This is getting ridiculous, and you’re nowhere near your next Rut.

* * *

“Congratulations.”

His scent has been etched in your mind for too long, it’s impossible not to sense him coming. Several more aptitude tests down the line and you’re here. You’re going to fucking Mars.

Crew training starts today, the first time you all see each other. The commander, an impressive Alpha named Lewis, greeted you with a calm handshake, nostrils flaring a little when she clocked your presentation. It’s a mission first, two female Alphas, and you’re glad your specialty puts you relatively far down the chain of command. Having two alphas too close in the hierarchy could be trouble. Good on NASA for nipping that potential issue in the bud.

“Thanks,” you reply, hoping that your smile is charming.

“Beck. Chris. I’m B- Chris Beck.” He adorably stumbles over his words, hand half outstretched in hesitation.

Taking it and easing his indecision, you introduce yourself, biting down on the insides of your cheeks because of course he is as soft as he looks.

“You’re our analyst, right? I’ve seen you a few times. You gonna help make sense of everything?”

“Preliminary analyses, at least,” you affirm with a nod. “Suppose NASA got tired of having to do all the work themselves. And yeah, I think I’ve seen you.”

Oh, you are lying. You are lying through your teeth and you don’t even care because he smiles so sweetly and you wanna wrap him up and hold him tight.

“Yeah, well, we’re gonna see a lot of each other. You’ll be tired of my face before long,” he offers with a chuckle, gaze dropping to the floor.

“Hey, doc!”

A voice rings out, you vaguely recognize it as the botanist who’s been wisecracking since you stepped through the doors. Chris shoots you another smile and a mumbled apology before jogging off to see what what’s-his-name… Watney, wants. In truth, you barely register his words because your mind is whirling.  _Doctor_  Chris Beck. He’s the fucking flight surgeon for the mission? You quickly run through the crew again, and something blooms in your chest.

_You’re outranked by an Omega._

_And you fucking like it._

* * *

Screw what they say about suppressants. You’ve been on them for close to two years now and they still fucking suck. They don’t fully take away the symptoms of a Heat or Rut, which is probably why they’re called suppressants. They help, sure, but it’s as if whatever hellish scientist cooked them up fine-tuned them to suppress only to the point where it’s barely manageable. You can still feel your skin heating up, your limbs itching, even your clit throbs in protest. But it’s manageable. You can do your duties without much interference.

The worst thing?

You have to go down to the infirmary and have Doctor Beck prescribe them to you. It’s hell enough that NASA has had to know for two years when you’re in your Rut and how it shifts as a result of the suppressants. Now you have to walk up to the frankly delicious Omega doctor and ask him pretty please for the pills that help you not scent him or Johanssen at any given moment, and keeps you from barricading yourself in your cabin for five days straight.

In the end, you don’t even have to say anything. Lewis lets you off your shift early when Johanssen starts getting squirmy around you, and you float through the access tunnels until the artificial gravity of the medbay section has your feet down on solid ground again. Beck’s head snaps up the second you step inside, knuckles paling from gripping the tablet he’s working on harder. Staying by the entrance you watch him scramble around to unlock a cupboard and rifle for the precious medication, and you swallow hard when you notice the blush creeping up the collar of his turtleneck sweater. Fuck, was this man out to kill you with his softness? Was he always this fucking  _pretty_? Finally finding it, Beck approaches you carefully, and you swear to god, your self-control has never been better because he honest to god  _whines_ when you reach out to take the coded blister packs and your fingers brush for a fraction of a second.

Then you’re out, bolting through the doors and back up into zero gravity until you reach crew quarters where you all but inhale the first dose, lower the temperature and strip naked, pacing back and forth.

Here’s a thought you never thought you’d have:

Being an Alpha sucks.

* * *

Here’s another thought you never thought you’d have:

_God, I’m glad it wasn’t me._

It’s been one week since the sudden mission scrap, one week since losing Watney, one week of everyone walking around like ghosts. Lewis is in bad shape, and you can understand her. There’s a reason Alphas get the commander-position nine times out of ten, but it comes at a price, and Lewis is paying it. You, too, to some extent. You’re not in command, but Watney was under you, you were the Alpha closest to him in the chain of command. He was a pain in the ass, but god, how you miss him now.

Everything is so quiet now; briefings, dinners, passing each other in the corridors. No one really wants to do more than what is required, and even what is required feels like a chore. It may as well be a ghost ship, six lost souls just waiting to be set to rest. Or, well…

Five souls.

Doctor Beck has been absent today, conspicuously missing during morning briefing. No one asked, just like no one spoke beyond the salient points for the agenda. Given that the mission had been scrapped and none of the samples collected during EVAs had been brought aboard, it had been a short meeting, Watney’s absence hanging heavy over the five of you. There was nothing to do but wait.

Exiting the main module, you hesitate before making your way to the medbay, thinking you could surprise Beck, maybe talk a little, apologize for the awkward run-in with your suppressants a month back because  _yikes_. You’re so used to the door opening with the barest press of the panel next to it, that you let out a less than dignified “oof!” when it doesn’t. The medbay is dark, locked up, not a sign of Doctor Beck. This was his sanctuary, and seeing it abandoned like this made the small hairs on your neck stand on end.

Here’s the thing about space: it fucks with your senses. On instinct, you inhaled, trying to find his scent. Back on earth, you could find him in a crowded room, but on this glorified tin can with only five other people, it’s a struggle to even pick up a trace of him. He’s been here, that much you know, sniffing a couple more times, fists clenching when your senses won’t cooperate. Beck may be your superior but right now he’s an omega, you’re an alpha and the two of you are stuck in a situation where you couldn’t deny your instincts even if you wanted to.

There is an upside to the disappearance of Beck; there’s only so much space for him to hide. The Hermes is spacious, sure, but quickly shrinks as you float through sections, peeking into rooms, scenting the air to see if he’s nearby. Your hunt finally brings you to crew quarters, and a tendril of relief shoots up your spine when you catch a stronger trail of him.

“Beck?” Your knuckles rap against his door, leaning in to strain your ears.

It’s faint, bless and fuck NASA for making the doors relatively soundproof, but you hear something rustling on the other side of the door, the scent getting stronger.

“Beck, come on. I just wanna make sure you’re okay. I swear to god, if you’re sitting leaned up against the door like in the movies, I might need to tell you a secret just to keep me from holding it over you for the rest of this joyride.”

It’s a weak attempt at humour, and part of you cringes at how inappropriate it feels in the cramped silence. Jokes were never your strong suit. That was all Watney.

There’s no reply, nothing you can accurately hear, but something pulls at you, wriggles inside and puts you on edge. “Beck?”

When he again chooses not to reply, you swallow. You hate doing it, especially here, especially now, especially to someone who’s above you in the chain of command, but your heart’s pounding loud and anxious in your chest. Swallowing, you lower your voice, letting the timbre flow.

_“Omega.”_

Your stomach lurches when you hear the whine coming through, subdued by the door but clear as a bell to your instincts. Scenting the air brings an onslaught of impressions, surging through your body before settling as a deep tug in the pit of your stomach, slowly easing downward. His absence. His scent. The whine.

_Omega in Heat._

It’s not pre-Heat. It’s not a Heat squashed by suppressants. Chris Beck is having a full-fledged Heat after years of managing it with the medical regimen demanded by NASA for the mission. Cursing under your breath, you scramble off to your own quarters just down the hall, pulling the covers and your one, measly NASA-issued pillow from the bed before hurrying to the small pantry that held a few drinks and snacks so you wouldn’t have to go down to the mess every damn night just because you wanted something to drink.

Looking down at the sad little pile, you wonder what your Rut-partner would say. Your partnership had been mutual, helping her out during her Heats just as she helped you during your Ruts. You’d never really been part of building a nest. Provided a few items of yours? Sure. Helped shift things inbetween knottings to better accommodate your positions? Absolutely. Beyond that, Alphas didn’t help build nests unless asked to. Even so, the sorry excuse of a blanket and pillow you hold onto now is a travesty, and there are no spares. Apparently, a crew member going into a true Heat or Rut during mission was a risk NASA considered negligible, thus adding no nesting material to the inventory.

“Beck?”

You’re back at his door, arms piled too full to knock, but you hope he can hear you. No sound, but the part of you that is kicking and screaming to break down the door and take care of the Omega inside can sense him.

“I… I got some stuff. If you want it, I mean. My pillow and my covers. And some snacks. Fuck, who am I kidding, it’s water and shitty rations, but it’s something. Please, just-” You bite down, inhaling deeply to quell your frustrations. Everything speaks to your presentation, but you know better than forcing yourself as a solution. “I can leave it outside your door, pretend I didn’t- I can sleep okay without my stuff, I promise. Just let me know if you’re okay?”

It’s hell waiting, feeling seconds tick by sluggishly, waiting and hoping and holding on to the rumpled fabric like it’s your lifeline. You keep it close to infuse it with your scent, trying to manage your pheromones so that if he accepts them, it will smell of calm, protective Alpha. It’s the least you can do.

At the sound of the door sliding open, you whip your head up, all words lost at the sight of Beck. You want to nail your feet to the floor, because that stellar self-control you had boasted about last month now threatens to shatter and send you hurtling to him.

“You look like hell.”

The words slip out, and you want to punch yourself. Great. Truly A+ Alpha behaviour. Insulting an Omega during their Heat. Fucking great job. Beck manages a weak smile, sweet and coy and a sharp contrast to the rest of him in this moment. The sweats hanging low on his hips are probably only for your benefit, his skin clammy with sweat, his hair a mess of curls and the scent of him is multiplied by his Heat.

Holding out the supplies for him, you try to ignore the effect he has on you, the dull tendrils of arousal reaching down to your core. He is so goddamn pretty, and smells so fucking good, and shit, why isn’t he-

“Why aren’t you on suppressants?” you ask when he takes your offerings, clearly trying not to touch you.

“Got left behind.” His voice is strained, fighting to stay even as he himself tries to fight the urges no doubt roaring inside him in the presence of an Alpha.

Of course. With the sudden scrap came a sudden egress, leaving behind everything. Including Beck’s suppressants.

“But don’t you have another course of them in the med bay?”

Beck gives a humourless chuckle. “Still means I’d have to suffer through one Heat.” His body shudders, the muscles in his stomach clenching before he bends over, succumbing to a wave of pain that has your fists closed tight. Giving a shaky breath, he rights himself, “Don’t worry. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

“You sure?”

Another cramp sends him kneeling to the floor, clutching his stomach and you’re reacting on instinct, stepping inside crouching behind him, pulling him up and into your embrace. He stiffens, the cramp still roiling through him and the sudden closeness throwing him for a loop.

“I’ll help,” you whisper, pressing your nose against the crook of his neck, gently scenting him. “You tell me and I will.”

“NASA…” Beck tries to reason, craning his neck for the relief your scenting provides.

“NASA didn’t anticipate a mission scrap and the loss of a crewman. They can’t blame you for following protocol and leaving everything behind, including the meds they put us on. Christ, Beck, you, me, Lewis and Johanssen have been on suppressants for two years. You’re burning up and it’s your first day. Have you ever gone this long without a Heat?”

You can see his jaw flex before he shakes his head and draws in a shaky breath through his nose.

“It’s not gonna get easier.” Your hands seek out his wide chest, soothing up and down to make him relax. “I had a friend come off suppressants after a year, almost fainted his first heat off them. I think NASA will be more pissed if they lose their flight surgeon because of his non-medicated Heat than if they found out said flight surgeon got laid to prevent serious injury from his non-medicated Heat. We’re consenting adults, Beck, you shouldn’t have to suffer.”

Beck stays silent, relaxing infinitesimally as the cramp finally relents. He’s still too hot, too tense, too amped up, but you won’t press him. Your presentation has been cast in an unfavourable light too often when traditionalists have made asses out of themselves and claimed something that was never theirs. Doesn’t matter that he’s aching in your arms, his scent teasing you to the brink, your own arousal making itself evident.

“Y-you’re-” he begins, swallowing hard and sighing when you press a little firmer against his neck for relief. “You don’t have to. I’m your- You shouldn’t feel forced…”

“Sweetheart, you’re not forcing me. You’re not claiming chain of command and ordering me. I’m trying like hell not to make you feel coerced. I’m offering a solution to an unforeseen situation. Ask me and I’ll say yes. I’ll take care of you as much as you need. Give you what you crave.”

He tenses against you again, a whimper escaping him that has you hushing against his soft skin, rocking him slowly.  _God, if he says no-_  It’s not that you’ll feel spurned or affronted. It’s that you know he’ll be in here fighting something he should not be fighting millions of miles from whatever comforts he would usually fall back on during his Heats. It’s knowing that he might say no because NASA might definitely frown upon what you’re offering and he’s being far too considerate of you to bend the rules even during extenuating circumstances. It’s knowing he might choose the possibility of getting hurt above the care you want to show him.

“Alpha, please…”

You’ve heard it often enough, whispered, howled, questioned and mumbled, but  _gods_ , it has never sounded as sweet as it does now. It’s a plea wrapped in the most delicious little whine, demanding your immediate response. It separates you from the circumstances. He is not your superior, you are not on a godforsaken spaceship hurtling back towards Earth after a catastrophic mission.

You’re an Alpha, he’s an Omega, and he’s asking you to help.

“Tell me what you need, Omega. Need you to ask, wanna hear that sweet voice, baby.”

It’s part reassurance that you won’t be overstepping any boundaries, part simply wanting to hear him. For six damn years you’ve walked around with his scent etched in your memory, imagination running wild at what he would sound like, look like, feel like under your touch. You brush your lips over his unmarked bonding gland, eliciting a small gasp that loosens his tongue.

“Please… Need you, Alpha. It hurts, please, I need you, need your knot.”

Fuck, if you had known back at orientation that this is what he sounds like begging, you might not have made it home to your Rut partner. You croon softly, rewarding him with a kiss to his gland, your clit throbbing when his scent, unfiltered and pure, saturates your senses.

“Good, Omega. So good for me. You wanna get back to your nest?” His slow breath is enough for you, gathering the covers and the pillow and gently laying it in his lap. “Yeah? Come on, show me where you’ve been staying.”

Blood courses wild inside you, it’s impossible not to be affected by him, not to feel that same overpowering heat crawling under your skin, electricity and unbridled lust sparking off every second of contact as Beck crawls to his feet, slouching inside the small cabin with you behind him. You don’t expect anything resembling the nests of your Rut partner, but you can’t help but smile. He’s done his best. NASA isn’t made up of complete idiots after all. Piled neatly in a row are three pillows, a fourth behind them along with his rumpled covers.

“It’s so nice, Omega,” you purr, smoothing your hands up along his side, splaying them over his stomach. “Will you let me join you? Don’t wanna ruin this pretty nest you’ve made.”

He purrs right along with you, “Yes, Alpha.”

“Thank you, baby. I’m gonna be real careful, okay? Why don’t you get out of these,” You hook your thumbs into his sweats, pressing kisses along his back, “and go lie down. Promise I’ll join you soon.”

Gods, you’re so gone already, drunk on the sweet words you lavish him with and how responsive he is. Seeing him push the remaining article of clothing off his slim hips, completely unabashed, has you biting your lip hard enough to nearly draw blood. You check his own pantry, pulling out another bottle of water and a snack pack. Rationing is not something you’d ever think to do, but resources are finite.

A groan pulls you back, has you shedding your clothes in seconds before approaching the nest. Beck’s curled up on his side, hugging the two covers and your pillow, face buried in it as he -  _fuck_  - breathes in your scent. Your clit swells, the need to care for him, to ease, to knot pulls you to him.

“Aw, baby, look at you all pretty for me.”

Much as your arousal is clawing at you, he needs this, needs the softness, the coaxing. You leave the supplies with the rest, gently climbing onto the bed, lying down behind him and bringing him flush to you.

“I’m here, Omega. Gonna help you, baby. C’mon, lemme see you…”

Slowly, you get him to roll over on his back and let go of the blankets. He’s a vision, smooth skin and defined muscles, his cock hard between his legs and thighs shiny with slick. You wish you could take your time, worship him like he deserves.

“So sweet… Don’t hide from me. Let’s see if we can’t find a better use for that pillow, hmm?”

He’s beautifully pliant, letting you mold him as you wish, needy little whines and purrs and hips bucking for your clit when you tuck the pillow under his hips. You can’t resist trailing kisses down his stomach, tasting him salt and soft on your lips before taking him gently in hand, jerking him slow.

“I know, I know, baby… Just wanna make you feel good. This okay? C’mon, talk to me. You feeling good, Beck?”

“C-Chris,” he stutters, bucking up and moaning when his cock slides in your grip.

It warms your heart, because for the entire mission he’s been Doctor Beck, or just Beck. Here, so open and vulnerable, he trusts you to be personal.

“This feel good, Chris?” you croon in response, squeezing him with a twist to your grip, letting your clit touch his slick opening.

“Ah! Yes, it feels good, feels so fucking good, please, I need-”

You press inside then, the end of his litany drowned out by a long moan as you slide in, aided by his slick. He’s so warm, so fucking tight, and fuck, you wanna do right by him. Your hands grip his hips tightly, eyes squeezing shut to live in this moment for just a little longer.

_“Alpha.”_

You snap back, eyes opening to drink him in. So goddamn beautiful. It’s by no means sweet and languid. He needs this first knotting to be fierce, and you’re all too happy to oblige, thrusting hard and fast to get you both to fall, still jerking him.

“So beautiful for me, Omega. So pretty and soft for me. Shit… You gonna come for me, precious? Gonna moan and beg for my knot, paint your stomach when you let go? God, I wanna keep you like this, spread open for me, wanna watch your sweet face when I knot you.”

Your praises and growls are interspersed with the slap of skin against skin, egging the both of you on until he bows off the bed and clenches down on you hard, so sudden it triggers your knot and locks you together in a shared howl that leaves you breathless, resting against his chest.

You love the time spent locked together, always have; getting to feel your partner so close and sated, listening to their speeding heart. For a few seconds, you fear this might be awkward, but Chris wraps his arms around you, sighing contentedly at the grounding weight of you on top of him.

“Thank you…”

You can’t even bring yourself to worry. There are four more days, explanations to give, potential reprimands from Commander Lewis and NASA, but right now you have a happy, sated Omega under you, your knot locked inside them. It’ll be okay.

* * *

In the end it is. Lewis is of course obligated to report to NASA, who curiously stops hinting at repercussions after a while. You and Beck walk on eggshells around each other until a certain revelation forces you to put it aside.

Watney is alive.

Plans are made, put in motion, supplies picked up, arrangements made. It feels good, actually having something to do, something to report. When your Rut comes around again, you bite the bullet and go down to the medbay, only to find Beck waiting for you, a knowing smile on his lips.

“I’ve known for a few days. Figured you’d be down sooner or later,” he tells you, handing you the familiar blister pack, swallowing hard when you take it.

“Thanks. Did NASA- will we be okay for, you know?” You vaguely gesture towards the door and the corridor beyond it.

“Yeah, NASA had me calculate how many cycles we’d all go through. Even sent extra.”

Oh.

“Okay… good.”

You hate how you sound so disappointed, it’s not like you were rooting for anyone to go through an unmedicated Rut or Heat at this point. But you can’t deny that you’ve spent way too many nights reliving the five days spent knotting him, replaying every sound, every sensation and getting yourself off to it.

“…I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Huh?” You look up at him, too lost in thoughts to hear him.

“Getting off the suppressants when we get back,” he repeats, fixing you with a gaze, a blush tinging his cheeks. “I’m… I’ll be going into Heat right after we get back. It probably won’t be as bad as… it was, but…”

Sparks shoot through you as you parse his statement, anticipation swelling until you feel like you might burst.

“Are you asking for help, Omega?”

He responds with a crooked smile, “Are you offering, Alpha?”

* * *

“I’m gonna die.”

Your voice is hoarse, your body tense as a drawn bowstring. Your Rut hit out of nowhere, no warning, and in hindsight you should probably not have decided to drive yourself home. Even calling seemed like a bad idea.

_“You won’t. We knew this was coming. Listen to my voice, Alpha. I’m getting the nest ready, gonna let you knot me so good in it, let you take what you need from me.”_

“Fuck, you’re not making this any easier,” you hiss, taking a sharp left turn and almost dropping the phone.

_“I’ll be here waiting for you, just get home safe.”_

“I’m fucking  _trying_ , Chris.”

He stays on the phone with you through your breakneck drive, only hanging up when you burst through the door. Your clothes get shed on the way to the bedroom, and if there was ever any doubts about your presentation, they are summarily squashed when you stride into the bedroom, the scent of your Rut pungent in the air, fixing your Omega, your precious Doctor Beck with a feral look, growling out one word:

_“Present.”_


End file.
